Page 22 of Fury

“No!”

Kerry snapped up the dish and handed it to the sandwich girl who appeared behind her, eyes round. “Get it out of here.”

I collapsed back on the bed, moaning.

“It’s all right, baby, it’s gone. Is that what it was, the sandwich?”

I wanted to bury my face in my pillow, but I couldn’t do that. My face burned.

“No more sandwiches, okay?” she said.

Sandwich girl brought in a bowl of chili and dashed back out of my room. Kerry helped me eat. When we finished, Kerry brought in Ryan, an occupational therapist friend of hers to look at my hands, at my stumps.

Ryan examined me and said I was going to have to work on “fine and gross motor coordination.” He told me we’d be using small balls and hand grips to strengthen my forearms, wrists, and fingers to help compensate for the loss of my middle fingers. Gripping and grasping exercises to accelerate the return of my grip strength and improve my dexterity would become my new everyday habit. As I got stronger, we’d add a variety of dumbbells and weight plates for me to pinch and claw and pull, and different kinds of handles to hold and drag all kinds of weights.

Both Kerry and Ryan waited for some kind of response out of me.

I had to be able to ride, hold a gun, use a knife. I didn’t want stiffness to get in my way, hold me back, and I sure didn’t want arthritis when I got older. No fucking way.

“I know you’re in pain now,” Ryan said. “And all this probably sounds overwhelming, but—”

“Bring it on,” I said.

He smiled. “I’ll set up a schedule for you.”

Ryan left my room, and Kerry handed me a tall plastic cup with water and a straw. I wasn’t thirsty. I wanted answers.

“Kerry, tell me what happened with my dad.”

She set the cup back on the desk by the bed. “They haven’t told you?”

“No one’s said a thing. I’ve been asking. But—”

“They don’t want to upset you. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for a few days now, honey.”

“Tell me.”

“Kid...” She pressed her lips together.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Calm down. You just got over a high fever.”

“Tell me the fucking truth!”

Kerry let out a breath. “Fuse had a heart attack. He collapsed on the spot.”

What Serena had told me was true.

“He was real upset about you going on that drop,” Kerry said. “He’d followed you and Siggy that night. He saw them kill Siggy, he saw them take you.”

“I knew it. I thought I’d heard him yelling.”

“He came back and flipped out. Then the not knowing what they were doing to you, hearing the threats and what it meant for you, for the club. He wasn’t eating right or getting any sleep, constantly wired. He wouldn’t let me take him to the doctor. Probably wasn’t taking his pills. You know how he got.”

“Did you see? Were you there? Was he alone?” My scratched voice choked on itself, I couldn’t get the words out, goddammit.

“It was late at night. He was in the office with Reich. Reich said—”

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